March 24, 2007

Notes from the office

Working on weekends could be considered a drag. You’re in the office on days when you’d ordinarily be watching TV, or at the shops, or doing anything to forget about the forthcoming week.

But, see, the thing about working on weekends is you get the office to yourself. You can make like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, and run around in your underoos, and nobody except you is going to know why you suddenly start giggling on Monday, when you sit at your desk. (That is, unless the boss finally got around to installing those security cameras, in which case, I predict an uncomfortable private chat in your immediate future).

For once, you get to set the heat the way you like it. Most days, the thermostat is a yo-yo; Rex likes a sauna, and Mary-Jo likes it cold. So you spend half your time huddling under a pile of winter coats, and the remainder with your tongue hanging out, and looking for ice.

You can sing along with the radio. Turn it up as high as the volume will go, and bellow along to your heart’s content. (The horses in the stable next door might not be happy, but then they can’t talk so who cares?).

There’s no phone calls, no worries about parking, no wondering if the lunch break will ever arrive.

Working on weekends brings a sense of accomplishment. But mostly, it’s just martyrdom on call.

“Oh, how was your weekend? What did you do?”

“Nothing much, I was working.” Accompanied by a slight self-deprecating grin.

“How awful! Poor you! Would you like a chocolate, let me take away some of your pain.”